


the wheel breaks the butterfly

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (the magazine oh god how do i get my foot out of my mouth), M/M, despicable the sun article about harry's pimply back and tattoos i hate them with a passion, i hate the sun, insecure!harry, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform, the sun i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:02:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because yes, there’s definitely something wrong – it’s not that he can feel it, or sense it. He just knows, because he knows Harry, and that’s all there is to it. (Or in which Harry reads an article in The Sun and Louis wants to bury him in his arms and hide him from the world.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wheel breaks the butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> written for an anon prompt on tumblr, embarrassingly short 'n shitty but oh well
> 
> prompt: remember the sun article from a while ago that was making fun of harry’s tattoos and his ‘back pimples’ even though they were clearly mosquito bites? just something with that. harry sees it, and harry gets sad, but louis’ not there to comfort him, because harry’s forced to be with taylor. so basically louis has to find a way to comfort harry without actually being there. from louis’ pov please? like, louis freaking out because harry’s all sad and insecure.
> 
> disclaimer: don’t own larry and i wouldn’t even want to own the fucking sun (well i mean the agazine bc i would definitely like owning the sun as in the actual sun that would be pretty cool)

_Louis_

It’s the only word Louis reads when he comes out of the shower and checks his phone, brushing his damp fringe out of his hair – his own name. It’s Harry who sent it – only about five minutes ago, he sees – and it’s just a word, just a text, but still it speaks volumes.

Harry needs him.

He types his response as fast as he can, and yet it takes longer than it normally would have because his fingers aren’t quite complying.

_Harry? What’s wrong love?_

Because yes, there’s definitely something wrong – it’s not that he can feel it, or sense it. He just _knows_ , because he knows Harry, and that’s all there is to it.

His phone buzzes and it’s a mail instead of a text this time.

_thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/showbiz/4729876/one-direction-harry-styles-tattoos.html_

That’s all it says – it’s a link. Louis clicks it, but not without a dreadful presumption brewing behind his bellybutton. A presumption that, unfortunately, appears to be correct, he realises when the website has loaded.

**Spot the difference: Harry Styles shows off tattoos… and pimples**

Louis thoughts are flashing through his mind like lightning. Harry’s twitter mentions must be full of links to this particular article – fucking social network sites. Fucking idiots, for talking about it, making Harry see. No, fucking media, for writing such bullshit – because really? Bullshit is the only accurate word there is for it.

**POP hunk Harry Styles shows off his collection of tattoos... and a pimply back.**

That’s it, the first sentence – and it has Louis seeing red, seeing fucking scarlet and dark crimson. How could they? How _could_ they? How _could_ they write things like this with a clear conscience and no sense of guilt and probably a peaceful dose of sleep tonight?

He scrolls down, not actually reading the article – he’s not sure he could stomach it – and shreds of vicious phrases catch his eye as he does.

**… with girlfriend Taylor Swift.**

**… the popstar’s pimple-ridden back…**

**Spot on... Harry’s back is covered in red bumps.**

**… and “Can I cry?”**

**… ship… to match the one in the latest video by…**

**But bandmate Louis Tomlinson joked that one “looks like he’s written it in Biro”.**

And the worst thing was that Louis _had_ said that, _had_ joked about it – or perhaps not the worst thing, but it was so filthy, so ugly to see it standing there, and to realise how Harry must have felt when he was reading this, with Louis nowhere around to take his phone away or throw it away or stick it in a blender or something equally effective. No, Harry was out – out and away with Taylor Swift, protecting their – their what? Protecting them.

Harry was out protecting them, but it was him who needed protecting, and Louis could reach him, couldn’t bury him in his arms and hide him from the world and its cold judgment.

It inflicted little cracks on his heart, made it bleed.

He had said that, but it was all in good nature and it was banter and Harry knew that then, but does he know it now?

So Louis pressed the number one, speed dial, waiting for it to ring. When it did, it was picked up almost instantly.

“Harry?”

“Lou.” It sounded as though Harry was choking. Louis could imagine him like that, not being able to breathe properly, eyes rimmed red because of the held-back tears.

“Harry, Haz – I saw, I read it, oh god – how could they?” It was strange that the only question not worth answering was the one haunting his mind. “How could – bastards, they are, all of them. I wish I could – I wish I.”

It was silent on the other end, apart from the occasional shivering breaths that came less regular than they should.

“Hey. Hey, Harry,” Louis said, much calmer now, “Harry, love, steady breathing, okay? In and out. Shh, everything’s okay, it’s fine – in and out. Yeah?”

And Harry does, loudly enough for Louis to hear. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m – yeah.”

“You’re doing good, Haz. You’re doing great. Hey, I love you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers back, “I know.”

Louis relaxed his tense shoulders when he heard the calm creeping into Harry’s voice. He sat down on the sofa, knees to his chin and phone clutched into his two hands.

“Where are you now?”

“I don’t know – um. Somewhere close to the zoo, I think.”

“Are you going to see the giraffes without me, Harry?” Louis mocked offense, but he was really only trying to cheer Harry up, make him laugh. Oh, how he wished to hear that laugh right now – a pool of cool water for the burning ache in his chest.

But it didn’t work. Harry’s tone stays as defeated and tired as it was before. “No. Or – well, I don’t know. Not if I can help it.”

“Promise you won’t look then.”

“Promise.”

“Good,” and it takes no more than that for Louis to fall down a level, losing his quirky masquerade. “God, Harry. You don’t know what I’d give to have you with me right now.”

The younger bone sniffles a little. “I miss you.”

“Bloody hell, first they have you off with Taylor and then _that_. But –” and that’s when he remembers why he actually called, “– none of that stupid rubbish is true Harry, you know that, right?”

It doesn’t take long for Harry to answer, not _that_ long, but in the few quiet seconds Louis’s worry increases sharply – because he doesn’t need Harry’s answer to know what he is or isn’t thinking, because he’s Harry, and Louis _knows_.

“I don’t – I mean, I _know_ , but like? It’s true, isn’t it? Or at least it’s true to them, to the world.”

“They know nothing, Harry,” Louis tells him stringently, “They can’t ridicule you, they don’t _know_ anything about you, not who you are, what you do, what you think. They’re not _allowed_ to.”

“But I do have pimples on my back, Lou,” Harry says quietly, “And I do have a lot of tattoos – and they’re not meaningless, but – there’s a lot of them, aren’t there?”

Louis straightens his back and shifts position, legs now crossed and his body leaning forward. _That_ ’s what they do – they get build up only to have _them_ break them down, to get ruined. But to hell with him if he’s going to let them.

“You’re eighteen, for fuck’s sake – they can’t _blame_ you for having pimples. I’d love to see how _they_ looked when they were your age – and I bet every penny I own that they weren’t half as gorgeous as you are, Harry. Not even close.”

“Stop it,” his boyfriend grumbles, but there’s a hint of a smile leaking through there somewhere.

“And I love your tattoos,” he reminds him, reminds him _again_ , because he’s done so hundreds of times, late at night and between soft cotton sheets, done so with licks and bites and throaty whispers.

Harry sighs, but it’s not as sad, it’s a sigh with spirits lifting.

“And I love you.” It’s the final blow Louis needs to have Harry smiling, and he _knows_ it, because that’s just how it goes.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Lucky you don’t have to find out then.”

“Lucky me. Um, Lou? We’re entering the zoo now, I’ll probably have to – hang up.” The reluctance is crystal clear in Harry’s voice, and it has Louis’s lips stretching in a fond smile.

“’Course, love. Have fun –” Harry snorts at that “– and remember what I said, okay?”

“Yeah, Lou, sure.”

“Can’t wait to see you.”

“Can’t wait to touch you.”

“Cheeky.”

“Not really.”

And Harry hangs up. The uneasy feeling behind Louis’s bellybutton hasn’t completely gone away, still slumbering beneath his skin, but he knows that when Harry gets home he’ll do anything, _anything_ , to make it go away.

And he’ll do _anything_ to make Harry forget every letter of that dreadful article.

But, for now, Louis is smiling because he _knows_ that, walking somewhere on small paths between various exotic animals, Harry is smiling as well.

And when Harry sends a text with, _didn’t look at the giraffes just so u know_ , Louis presses his face in the pillow next to him to hide his lovesick grin from the world, from everyone who doesn’t deserve to see.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: lewdis
> 
> yeah um well  
> thoughts?


End file.
